Hibernation
by FSK-AceAngel
Summary: In the face of a Mayan Apocalypse that probably won't happen, Crowley believes it'd be best to just sleep through the winter of 2012. Aziraphale, deciding he might give this "sleeping" thing a go, may or may not understand what "hibernation" entails— something Crowley takes advantage of. Warning: includes Weight Gain, Jaffa Cakes and a peculiar lack of Slash.


A/N: I wrote this derpy thing in one afternoon without putting a great deal of thought into it, so I apologise if some bits seem more rushed than other bits, and if further bits don't make a shred of sense when connected to yet other bits. Also, there are a couple of places where I'd have LIKED to use footnotes, but since I don't think that'll work on , I just stick to my parenthetical statements.

Characters are not mine; dear Aziraphale and Crowley belong to Mssrs. Gaiman and Pratchett.

-**August**-

In the late summer, Crowley announced his intention to sleep through the Mayan Apocalypse.

Aziraphale lowered his fork with a frown. "But my dear, the Mayan Apocalypse isn't _real_."

"I know. My side dreamt it up, didn't they? Doesn't mean I want to stick around to see what the humans decide to do about it. Remember Y2K?"

The angel cringed gently. "Too well. However, it could have been worse."

"It _will_ be," Crowley insisted. "This will be worse. Real or not, I'd be amazed if someone Upstairs or Downstairs doesn't step in to settle or bollocks things up, respectively. Widespread panic, you know. Flies to honey and all that."

His companion began to look unsettled. "Oh. I can see it, as well. No, wouldn't really want to get caught up in that."

"_Especially_ after what happened the last time we had an Apocalypse. No thanks. I'm hiding this one out. Starting a month before and stopping a month after, just to be _completely_ sure— it's hibernation time."

In the absence of food, Aziraphale nibbled pensively on the side of his thumb (too distracted to pilfer something edible from Crowley's plate). "Do you…do you reckon I might join you?"

"_Excuse me?_" Crowley misunderstood the connotations and was baffled for it.

"Hibernating through the Mayan Apocalypse," the angel clarified, equally confused. "That's what we've been talking about. Or did we manage to derail off-topic?"

"Never mind." Crowley allowed a brief smirk before sobering. As amusing as it could have been to tease the angel about his choice of phrasing, discussing the matter at hand took precedence. "You want to try sleeping? You never sleep. You've never slept a wink in your _entire_ existence."

"I've never found reason to," Aziraphale said, "but I can't imagine it'd be too difficult if I put my mind to it. Really, it does sound like a marvelous idea, staying out of this Apocalypse, whether it happens or fails to happen." He brightened. "We could use the cellar in my bookshop."

"Where you keep your most precious volumes? Reinforced, I expect."

Aziraphale had the grace to look embarrassed. "Er, and then some. Believe me, we'll be quite safe down there."

Crowley rolled the options around in his mind for a few moments, and, unable to come up with sufficiently devilish reasons to refuse this new arrangement, he finally responded with a sinuous shrug. "All right, why not? November 21st, we'll meet in your cellar and hibernate through the Mayan Apocalypse."

They shook on it.

-**One Week Later**-

Crowley didn't say anything at first, not while Aziraphale ordered his meal. But once the angel had cleaned his _multiple_ plates and reached for Crowley's leftovers, the demon decided not to immediately relinquish his dish and to finally speak up. "Did you mean to order twice as much as usual, or have you lost all perception of portions?"

Aziraphale threw his demonic associate a miffed look. "Crowley, we're going to be _hibernating_ in less than three months. I've seen documentaries on how one prepares for such an event."

Crowley blinked at the empty plates, at his own plate, at the slightly round angel across from him. "You mean how animals stuff themselves to save energy for the winter? Living off their own fat?"

"Of course! You must have done it before, so surely you're an expert."

This was too, too rich. He _could_ have explained to the angel that they were not _literally_ hibernating, and, as supernatural entities, they hardly needed to subsist on food or energy or fat or anything of the kind— but where was the fun in that? "Oh, well, hmm," he remarked instead, making quite a show of stroking his chin with a frown. "Actually, I don't function like that. Ectothermic or whatever the technical term is. I'm a reptile, remember?" Before he was forced to elaborate (and thus pull a great deal of invented science out of his hat), he pressed on. "You, on the other hand, are right on the money. After all, it'll be two solid months without food while you're sleeping."

Aziraphale paled a bit at the reminder. "Yes, oh dear. So that's why I thought…"

"You thought right," Crowley hissed, now smiling like the snake he was, and pushed his plate across the table. "I don't have any pointers, but don't worry— I think you can manage."

"Excellent, quite." The angel dug into the leftovers with great relief.

Crowley watched, inwardly delighted, worry about the Apocalypse temporarily swept aside in favour of the much more amenable sensation of humour. The next few months, he suspected, were going to be highly entertaining.

-**September**-

While Crowley made a point of meeting his yearly quota of temptations and minor upsets in the grand scheme of mortal affairs —so as not to arouse suspicion Down There, particular in view of his winter plans— Aziraphale spent much of his time eating. Between an uptick in dining excursions, with or without Crowley, and the Jaffa Cakes he'd taken to scattering around the bookshop, most of his days (and nights) saw him preparing for the imminent hibernation.

Needless to say, it all began impacting his corporal form rather quickly.

Crowley _did_ notice Aziraphale's already-pudgy figure filling out at an impressive speed, and with the confidence that the angel had invited his own expansion, couldn't resist commenting on it. "Soon there won't be room for the both of us," he commented one breezy afternoon at St. James's Park, indicating the bench they currently occupied.

Aziraphale exhaled an indignant huff as he tore a piece of bread in half and lobbed it in a gentle arc toward the water's surface. No less than seventeen ducks made a dive for it. "Really, dear, don't be silly. One would have to be enormous to take up an entire bench." The other half of the bread slice lodged itself in his cheek a moment later.

"Leave some for the birds," the demon smirked, stretching his lanky legs before him and folding his arms behind his head like a sun-bather (a terribly inefficient one; clouds filled the autumn sky). Yellow eyes darted behind his lenses, stealing a subtle glance. "You are making nice headway, though."

"Really?" Aziraphale murmured, reaching to smooth his hideous sweatervest over his belly. Sitting like this made the material edge up a bit too far for his tastes, while the waistband of his trousers dug into his skin with equal discomfort. "I rather hope it's worth it. I may need new clothes at this rate. They've become awfully snug."

Crowley waved a lazy hand. "Just _make_ them fit. Bless them or miracle them or whatever-term-you-please them."

Aziraphale sniffed. "That feels like cheating."

"Fine, waste your money. But of course it's worth it, angel," he added, sitting up and looking his chubby companion square in the face. "You wouldn't want to _starve_, would you? _Two whole months_ without food."

The inanity of this statement continued to be lost on Aziraphale, unversed in the ways of hibernation as he was, and apparently gullible to boot. "Dreadful," he shuddered, taking up another slice of bread and tossing a considerably smaller piece for the ducks.

Not quite a week later, the pair dined at the Ritz. Aziraphale, it appeared, had not yet invested in a new wardrobe, in spite of the increased urgency of his situation. Crowley arched an eyebrow high as he watched the angel approach the table, an apology stamped across his face, his fleshy frame positively stuffed into an unfashionable outfit in dire need of a good furnace.

"So sorry," the angel gushed, plopping down in his chair (it was a wonder that his straining shirt buttons could handle the abrupt stress this movement produced) and picking up a menu. "Someone actually came to the bookshop today. Persistent young woman. It took me ages to drive her off."

"Was she after books, or does she fancy larger gentlemen, d'you think?" Crowley quipped into his wine glass.

"What? Oh, _really_. That's uncalled for. It's one thing for you to make offhand comments under normal…er, out of the blue, but you _know_ I must do this if I'm to survive hibernation in this body." Aziraphale frowned and patted his (ample) stomach for emphasis. "Don't make fun just because you don't have to go through with it yourself."

"I'm a demon, it's in my nature to…" Crowley saw the frown deepen and lifted his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. I'll temper my impish wisecracks."

"Thank you, my dear."

"Unless they're irresistibly witty."

Soon a lavish spread covered the table, which Crowley picked over at a discerning pace, while Aziraphale ate with earnest. The angel didn't like to admit it, but accompanying his (ostensible) necessity for extra sustenance was a decided _want_ and _enjoyment_ of the overindulgence he consciously engaged in. Certainly he could say nothing of this to Crowley— mortifying on an angelic level by itself, to inform his morally bereft friend of the _pleasure_ he derived from _intemperance_ would lead to nothing but endless jokes and triumphant told-you-sos.

He already knew of his weakness, and normally he could live with it, sweep it under the carpet, feel he could find a way justify it to his superiors in case anyone ever decided to call his habits into question. Hibernation, and the extra consumption it entailed, was another matter. He would be glad to have it over with and shed this excess guilt (and weight).

But the bisque _was_ delicious.

Crowley watched the angel polish off one plate after another, stifling his smugly satisfied smirks at Aziraphale's request. His angelic associate appeared to relish every bite, doing a poor job of hiding the beatific expression on his round face. _He's loving every second of this_, he crowed silently, _even if he won't admit it_. After brief consideration of his pasta, he slid the plate closer to the angel. "Here, I've finished."

Before long, the pasta —and everything else on the table— was gone, leaving behind an amused Crowley and an extremely full Aziraphale.

The snake plucked up a dessert menu.

"Oh no," Aziraphale groaned, shifting in his chair in a fruitless effort to find a comfortable position. His clothes felt far, _far_ too tight, taxed with the task of reining in his overfull belly. He couldn't imagine taking another bite; surely he would burst. "No dessert, Crowley."

"You don't have to get any, this is for me."

However, when the waiter delivered the colossal slice of Black Forest cake and set it in front of Crowley, it remained there for approximately forty-eight seconds, withstanding two bites from the sly snake before slipping its innocuous way across the table to Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who hated to waste _anything_.

"Oooh." The angel set down his fork and, a bit hazy, fumbled for his napkin to dab at his chocolate-stained lips. "I…I think I need a lie-down." A sudden belch followed this assertion, startling both men (or man-shaped entities, as the case may be). "Oh! I beg your pardon."

Crowley grinned. "Well, angel. That was impressive, I must say." He waved the waiter over. "Tell you what, this is my treat. I'll even pay with real money this time."

In spite of everything, Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "What are you up to?"

"Just a reward for letting a sound like _that_ escape your hallowed lips." While the angel's face warmed, Crowley paid the bill and, stretching his arms with undulating, inhuman grace, made to stand. "Ready to go?"

"Er? Oh, yes, let me just…" Aziraphale started to stand, and stopped. His eyes trained downward. The pink suffusing his cheeks spread. "I…oh dear."

"Something wrong?"

"No, I just…well, perhaps. Yes. Oh dear," the angel repeated under his breath.

Crowley climbed to his feet and began to circle round the table. "What? Are you stuck?" he asked, unable to resist the crack. He knew Aziraphale was not _that_ fat— yet.

"No!" the angel cried in aggrieved tones, pink darkening to red. He glanced around quickly, then lowered his voice. "The button on my…my trousers."

"Yes?"

"Well, it's…er. Not there."

Deadpan black shades stared down at the humiliated angel. A smirk writhed on Crowley's lips, but he managed to bite down on it. "Miracle it back, already."

"Now, _really_, not everything needs to be—"

"Then pull your bloody shirt down over your trousers. That'll do until you can get home and change."

"Erm. I can't."

"Can't _what?_"

A tight, contrite expression settled on Aziraphale's scarlet face. "I can't pull my shirt down."

Crowley finally leaned over the angel's shoulder, despite spluttered protests, to assess the damage. He could see no lap to speak of— just a bulging stomach, with both shirt and vest riding up along it. If the angel leaned forward, he would lose more than his trouser button. He sighed and snapped his fingers.

Everything suddenly fit, the button restored to its rightful place. "Oh, Crowley," said the angel, sounding disappointed. "I wish you wouldn't do that without _asking_."

"I won't do it again. Maybe. Now, for G— for anyone's sake, _everyone's_ sake, buy some clothes that fit you!"

They left the Ritz, Aziraphale tugging at each article of clothing with every step. "See, you've done something to them," he complained. "Something's off, and—" He stopped, appalled. "You _changed_ my vest!"

"I've improved it. Get in the car, angel. We're going shopping."

-**October**-

Crowley dragged his favourite —though exhausted— shape back into his flat, steeling himself for the sight of wilted, desaturated leaves hanging over the sides of pots and littering the carpet.

A very close call indeed with his superiors had necessitated a self-imposed eviction from his quarters, and he willingly scampered across the whole of Great Britain to escape notice. It had been far too sudden to warn Aziraphale of his departure, however, and he couldn't help but worry over what the blessed angel had done in his absence. Hopefully he hadn't taken him for discorporated. His unexpected vacation had taken longer than anticipated, after all, one week bleeding into two creeping into three.

To his relief, he found his plants perky, green and far too complacent. Their condition, as well as their reaction to the sight of their old master stepping into his pristine flat, spoke volumes as to identity of their ephemeral (and ethereal) caretaker.

Crowley rang Aziraphale.

"Crowley, my dear boy! You've returned!"

"Hullo, angel. Been coddling my plants, I see."

"I take it you had to run off on business? I assumed since you left no note that it was unforeseen, inescapable business." There was only a hint of reproach in the angel's amiable voice.

"In a sense." The demon grudgingly made up for his absence with a proposal. "Anyway, it's not too late. Want to go chuck bread at ungrateful waterfowl?"

"Oh, of course! Make sure you wear a scarf, though, dear, it's getting quite chilly."

Crowley arrived at St. James's before Aziraphale and parked himself by their favourite bench, hands stuffed in his pockets as he gazed out over the lake. The leaves had warmed to gold since their last visit, reflecting in the water and increasing the natural beauty of the place twofold. It was confoundedly lovely, putting the demon in a dour mood the moment he realised this. To cheer himself up, he upended all the nearest rubbish bins.

His spirits practically went into orbit when Aziraphale strolled into sight, bundled up in what appeared to be a new coat, waving happily with one arm whilst clutching two loaves of bread in the other. Although the big coat deflected a fully accurate appraisal, Crowley knew the angel's figure had expanded quite a bit in his absence. He could detect it from his wider frame, his softer jawline, his very gait as he approached the bench.

"Hullo!" the angel said brightly, coming to a halt and handing over a loaf. "Lovely colours, aren't they? This time of the year is so— oh dear, some young delinquents must have gotten into the— hang on." He stopped to snap his fingers, undoing Crowley's artful piles of debris in an instant.

Crowley was too distracted trying to stare through Aziraphale's coat to care. "What have you done while I've been gone?" he asked with innocent flippancy, settling on the bench. "It's got to be terribly _dull_ without me around."

"I had to sell a book," Aziraphale said wistfully, joining his companion. As Crowley suspected, he took up more of the bench than usual. "I did my best to make it an unimportant one. Not that I keep unimportant books in my shop, mind— it's all relative. This book was, oh, let's say slightly less important than the 1926 _Baedeker's Handbook for London_, but more important than Agatha Christie. I have loads of her. I should have sold one of _those_," he realised, face falling.

"Uh-huh." Slitted eyes peered closely, unseen behind stylish sunglasses. Had the angel had a double chin before? Not _quite_. But surely that's what he saw now.

Aziraphale threw a piece of bread, then turned in his seat to stare back at Crowley. "Well?"

Crowley blinked, taken aback. "Oh. What? Sorry, miles away."

"No, you weren't," the angel pointed out. "You've been staring at me. Trying to think of a clever joke about how _substantial_ I've become, no doubt."

The demon thought of several at that moment, but controlled himself. "Actually, I was thinking you've done a bang-up job. Well on your way to a successful hibernation!"

Aziraphale's blue-grey eyes lit up. "You think?"

"Sure. Still, we've got just over another month before we tuck ourselves in for the Apocalypse. You've yet a ways to go."

The angel regarded himself, reflective. "I'd assumed I was about finished. Not that I'll stop eating, of course! But, well, back to my regular regimen, as it were. I'm sure I can maintain this through next month."

But Crowley shook his head vigorously. "No, no! Are you daft? You'll undo all your hard work! What if you _can't_ maintain it, and you slim back down just in time for November 21st? You'd _waste away into nothing_ while you were sleeping and never know it!"

Aziraphale blenched and squirmed. "Oh, _no_, no good at all! That's horrific!"

"I know _I'd_ hate to wake up to that in January!" The demon knew he was laying it on a bit thick, but for the sake of theatrics, he reached out and gave Aziraphale's arm an encouraging pat. "So don't give up yet, angel— keep on storing for hibernation!"

"Right!" Bolstered, Aziraphale turned out his pockets and came up with several individually wrapped packs of Jaffa Cakes. "Good thing I brought these, then. Would you like one?"

Congratulating himself, Crowley accepted the treat, nibbling and smiling as Aziraphale avidly worked his own way through five times as many.

It took very little persuasion on Crowley's part to take Aziraphale out to dine for the next several nights, and each meal —nigh on each _bite_— seemed to render the angel ever plumper. Every time Aziraphale stuffed himself beyond a practical limit, and Crowley graciously took him home to cap it off with a bottle of wine or two. The results exhibited themselves swiftly, it became apparent that he would soon be bursting out of his clothes, and, once again, Crowley took the angel shopping and was unable to dissuade him from stocking up on tartan and argyle and other various eye-gouging patterns.

All the while, Crowley noticed how much gratification the angel gleaned from his bouts of gourmandising, while Aziraphale did his best to ignore and dismiss this.

-**November 20th**-

The bookshop's telephone rang.

Aziraphale chewed, swallowed, licked chocolate from his fingertips, then heaved himself to his feet to track down his phone. It took a good fifteen rings before he'd managed to unearth it from beneath an unwieldy pile of Agatha Christie mysteries (he suspected they had reproduced sometime in the past few months). "Hello?"

"'Lo, angel. What say you to a quick visit to the ducks? One last hurrah before the Mayan Apocalypse and hibernation and such."

"That would be nice," Aziraphale sighed, then interrupted himself with a soft burp. "Beg pardon. Could you pick me up? I don't fancy walking."

Crowley kept his comments to himself and merely agreed, parking out front the shop in the Bentley within a quarter-hour. Soon, Aziraphale waddled through the front door, locking up behind him before squeezing into the passenger seat. Crowley felt the Bentley rock a bit with the disproportionate weight and held his forked tongue with a suppressed grin. "No coat?" he asked.

"It won't button anymore," the angel said, a trifle peevish, "and I didn't really see much point going out to buy a new coat when we're going to be sleeping for the next two months, anyway."

"Right," said Crowley.

Aziraphale sniffed the air. "What's that?"

"I picked up some takeout. Thai."

"That was thoughtful of you!"

"Not at all; I skipped lunch."

Dead leaves crunched under their sacred and profane soles as they cut a swath to the lake. The cold air held the promise of snow. Fortunately, Aziraphale had managed to find a wooly sweater to take the place of his ill-fitting coat, although this article of clothing had hardly fared better in the face of his rapid gain.

The pair sat on their bench and ate their takeout, a loaf of bread wedged between the two of them. Crowley couldn't help but note how Aziraphale came treacherously close to breaching the halfway point; not even close to filling the entire bench, but taking up more space than he'd thought likely when this had all started. He could only imagine the actual number of pounds the angel had packed on during the past three months— truly an inhuman feat, befitting beings as supernatural as themselves.

After finishing off the last of their meal, Aziraphale extricated a handful of smushed Jaffa Cakes from his trouser pockets.

"Crowley?"

"Yes?"

"I'd like your honest opinion."

"That's a stupid thing to ask of a demon."

"Please, I mean it."

The demon in question detected the underlying desperation in Aziraphale's words and turned to face him. The angel had finished his sweets, licking rather disconsolately at the fingers of one hand while tugging at his sweater with the other. Crowley's yellow eyes slid up and down. Aziraphale _had_ become awfully corpulent— his chubby cheeks bulging, his pronounced double chin threatening a third, his flabby chest stretching his sweater taut, his wide rump and ample thighs spreading across the park bench, and, of course, his globular, distended paunch protruding into his lap, which, now that it was full of Thai and cakes, crept out from underneath his close-fitting sweater.

A peculiar feeling —perhaps guilt?— flitted through the demon's mind for a moment, but the moment passed. He frowned and shook his head. "Fine. Go ahead. I'll try and be truthful, even if it causes me to go up in flames."

Aziraphale stopped cleaning his hands and gave Crowley a wretched look. "Tell me: have I gone too far with this hibernation nonsense?"

Crowley tried not to flinch. "Sorry?"

"Oh, you know precisely what I mean!" Aziraphale spread his hands, gesturing to his puffy figure. "This! Really, do you believe I'm that thick? Do _not_ twist that into a joke," he added warningly, and the snake clamped his mouth shut. "Angels and demons don't need to _hibernate!_ I've only been going along with it because, damn it all —so sorry— I _do_ enjoy food and eating it, and you presented me with this silly excuse and we've both been having such a fine time—!"

Now Crowley did jolt. "What d'you mean '_we_'?"

"—But now look at me," the angel bleated on, taking his stomach in both hands and giving it a pathetic shake (_everything_ wobbled), "I feel this has gotten out of control and yes, it was just a little game at first and I really thought we'd stop before now—"

"We again! What we?!"

"—But I can't _seem_ to stop!" Aziraphale finished with a moan.

"Hang on, hang on." Crowley pedaled at the air with his hands, face twisted in an array of expressions all at the same time. "You've known all along that this hibernation-weight-gain-bollocks is…well, bollocks?"

"Of course!" Aziraphale snapped, indignant. "If you remember, I'm the one who came up with it! _You_ just _ran_ with it. Why would we need to subsist off of stored _fat_ as occult and ethereal beings, sleeping for months on end or not?! Our biology may be tricky, but it's not as ridiculous as all that."

"You've been _playing along_ this whole time?"

"Well, at first I was, and I wondered when you would catch on, but then I couldn't seem to stop! I'm a glutton," the angel wailed suddenly. "I've committed a Deadly Sin! I'm doomed to Fall! If my superiors see me—"

"Oh, for…" Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's shoulders and gave him a sharp shake, startling him to quiet sniffles. "Now, let me guess: you stopped 'playing along' sometime last month, yes?" When this was met with a curious nod, he laughed and pressed on. "Then it's _fine_. That's when I started putting something in your wine. All that wine we have after dinner? I didn't _know_ it would work on you, but I thought I'd try it for the Hell of it."

The angel looked flabbergasted. "What have you been putting in my wine?"

"Appetite stimulant."

"You never!"

"Most certainly did," the snake hissed smugly. "Funny that it worked. Anyway, you're not to blame, then. No one can call you a glutton; you just got played by a demon."

"That's _hardly_ any better. And besides, what about before? I was willingly going along with this silly hibernation game and eating enough for two humans…"

Crowley shrugged. "Let's say I've been lacing your food from the start. Again, not your fault."

Aziraphale squinted suspiciously. "Why in Heaven's name are you trying to take the fall for this, you old serpent?"

The answer came to Crowley in an instant, and he blurted it without thinking. "So you won't have to take the Fall." An almighty grimace followed. _Bless me, did I really just spout something so corny _out loud_?_

But it seemed to do the trick. Aziraphale's eyes watered. "Oh, my dear friend…"

"Ugh, stuff it." The snake leaned away on the bench, putting his body out of arm's reach before Aziraphale got any ideas about hugging. "Anyway, I hope you know that this isn't going to change my plans for the Mayan Apocalypse. I'm sleeping in your cellar for the next two months whether you join me or not."

The angel blinked down at himself. "I don't suppose there'd be a chance that I could lose this weight while sleeping?"

"No, angel. I don't suppose there'd be a chance of that at all."

"Then I'm fairly certain I'll be spending the possible Apocalypse on a diet, my dear. I'll wake you up when it's over, or once it hasn't happened. Meanwhile, let's…er…" He let out a light cough. "Let's not do this again."

"Sounds like a plan."

They shook on it, though Crowley had his fingers crossed behind his back. Aziraphale stood and walked their trash to the nearest bin, while Crowley took over bread-lobbing duty, seeing as they'd neglected the ducks during their visit.

Aziraphale returned to the demon's side to find that he still hadn't tossed any bread into the water, evidenced by the cacophony of angry quacking (better known as quackophony). "Don't tease the poor things. What are you waiting for?"

"D'you reckon ducks hibernate?" Crowley asked thoughtfully.

"Oh, please."

"Serious! I don't remember."

"Well, they migrate, don't they? Fly south for the winter. Spain, I assume."

Crowley made a face. "Would that I could just fly south for the _Apocalypse_."

"I can't imagine that would do you much good."

"Lucky bastards," the demon said to the impatient birds. "_El_…_duckos_."

"Look, could we please get going?" Aziraphale shivered irritably. "It's cold, I'm _still_ hungry, and if you don't throw that bread to the ducks soon either they will fall upon you with a vengeance or I'll just eat it myself."

The entire loaf sailed into the lake.

"Let's go, angel."


End file.
